


JB Flotsam and Jetsam

by Luthien



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Weather, Drabble, Drabble Sequence, Dystopia, F/M, Ficlets, First Dates, Fix-It, Locked In, Midnight, Moonlight, POV Outsider, Worry, prompt fills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-08 02:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21228110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: Just somewhere to stash responses to various prompts on tumblr.





	1. Moonlit Lions

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from twelvemonkeyswere: moonlit lions

It’s the hottest night of the year. Too hot to sleep under the covers. Too hot even to sleep inside. Pod gets up and wanders through the deserted corridors of the Hall until he finds himself at the main doors. He lets himself out, not making a conscious decision about where he’s going, but just letting his feet take him where they will. He’s not really all that surprised when he ends up walking down the hill to the small, private beach. The moon is almost full, lighting his way through the still and silent night. Even the ocean is uncharacteristically quiet and calm, with barely a ripple to show that these are supposed to be the Stormlands. Perhaps a dip in the water is just what he needs to help him cool down enough to sleep, though.

It’s only as he nears the beach that Pod realises that he’s not the only one who’s thought that a swim might be a good idea tonight. His first clue is just a movement, there on the sand, caught out of the corner of his eye. And then they move again and he sees them properly, limned by moonlight. They’re both naked, but there’s no doubt who they are. Both tall and well-muscled, golden hair and pale, tangled together as they wrap themselves around each other. A moonlit lion with a…

Pod flushes and looks away, but the sentence has a life of its own and continues on regardless of his acute embarrassment: a moonlit lion with a sapphire in his mouth.


	2. Over the Anvil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope mashup prompt from Scoundrels-in-love: Accidentally Married + It’s Not You, It’s My Enemies 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this got long and is in NO WAY a summary. I fail at those. It’s a ficlet, and a dire warning to anyone who gives me the words “accidentally married” and expects me to cover that in two paragraphs.

“It was never you, it was my enemies,” Jaime tries to explain as they gallop away from the ruined castle. “I couldn’t let them know. If they had realised…” _what I felt for you_… He shakes his head helplessly. There’s no way to explain, particularly when trying to shout above the thunder of the horses’ hooves. They have to leave this place, and now. That’s the most important thing.

And yet, Brienne must have heard, because she smiles brilliantly, like he’s never seen her smile before. It’s enough. He smiles back, and then they both look to the road ahead. They need to put as much space between themselves and Oldstones as they can before nightfall.

They’re still riding hard an hour after they pass into the forest. It’s starting to get dark. They’ll need to find somewhere to stop for the night, a clearing in which to build a fire. The fire will keep them warm on one side as they sleep, even as they freeze on the other side. It would be easier if they shared the warmth of their bodies, as soldiers do on campaign, but the wench will never agree to such a thing, Jaime knows. Not when the snow lies so lightly on the ground, in any event.

He’s about to suggest they turn around and retrace their steps to the break in the trees they passed a mile or so back, when something catches his eye through the brush. Is that a flame? And that beside it… yes, there’s no mistaking it. It’s not the work of nature; that’s the side of a roof.

They ride into the village not long before the sun goes down. Well, _village_ may be stretching things a bit. There’s a couple of cottages, though they’re little better than huts, and a smithy attached to the largest of the dwellings. That’s it. The flame he’d seen through the trees is explained now: he can hear the rhythmic thud of a hammer coming from inside the blacksmith’s workshop.

Jaime glances at the smithy and then exchanges a look with Brienne. She nods slightly. It’s the obvious place to ask for shelter for the night. It will likely snow again before long, and Jaime would rather a roof over his head when that happens. The smithy would be far better than many places they’ve slept in recent times: it has a proper roof, it’s out of the wind, and the dying fire will keep the place warm long after the sun goes down.

The blacksmith must hear the door open, because he puts down his hammer, and turns to greet them, wiping the sweat from his face with the edge of his apron.

“Welcome,” he says. “You’ll be wanting to stay the night, I expect?”

Brienne’s eyebrows rise at this; they’re not used to being welcomed by strangers, never mind invited in without a suspicious look or anything being asked in return.

“Yes, we will,” Jaime says, trying for a charming smile to counter the wench’s sudden look of suspicion. Will she never learn not to show her every thought on her face?

“Well, first things first,” says the blacksmith. “Just a hand on the anvil to begin with, if you wouldn’t mind. The both of you,” he adds, when Brienne hesitates.

Jaime and Brienne exchange another look. _What does it matter if he’s slightly eccentric?_ Jaime asks silently, or at least hopes that his expression conveys enough of his thoughts for her to get the general idea. _It’s a roof over our heads for the night._

_I don't like this,_ Brienne replies, just as silently and unmistakably, but she places her hand on the anvil beside his.

“Good, good.” The blacksmith nods. He takes off his apron and hangs it on a hook driven into the wall a safe distance from the fire, before turning back to face them, beaming. “Now then: are you both of marriageable age?”

This time Jaime’s eyebrows shoot up, and he can feel the wench stirring beside him, no doubt about to demand what business that is of the blacksmith’s. “Brienne,” he says softly, warningly. What does it matter if this blacksmith is, well, eccentric? They will be sleeping with their swords within easy reach wherever they spend the night.

“Yes,” Brienne says, sounding like she begrudges even just that single syllable.

“Yes, of course,” Jaime says, when the blacksmith looks to him. It’s impossible to mistake the wench for a girl of less than fifteen years, but even less so does he look like a stripling not yet properly into his first youth.

“And are you free to marry?” the blacksmith asks.

And that’s when Jaime realises. This isn’t just some half-crazy blacksmith asking questions of them just because he can, just because he’s the one who owns the only half-decent shelter around here. This is an anvil wedding! Jaime’s only heard of them in songs, though Tyrion told him once that they’re still practised in the more remote corners of the westerlands, where the whim of some long-ago Lannister kept them legal. All it takes is for two people to declare that they’re of marriageable age and not promised to anyone else. Anyone can perform a marriage like that, or even no one at all. Jaime has no idea why such marriages became the purview of blacksmiths, except that that’s become part of the tradition in the westerlands, too. And only in the westerlands. Everywhere else throughout Westeros, marriages performed in the sight of the Old Gods or the New alone are recognised, and have been ever since whichever High Septon it was brought his influence to bear on some half-forgotten Targaryen king.

“A question first, if I may,” Jaime says. “Have we by chance crossed the border into the westerlands?”

“If you’ve come from the east, aye, you entered the westerlands the moment you crossed the stream away yonder near the eastern edge of the forest. It’s the child of the great Blue Fork river.”

“Ah,” Jaime says. He turns to Brienne. “It appears that we’re not just being offered shelter for the night.”

“Really.” Brienne’s tone is dry as dust.

Jaime clears his throat. “In fact, it appears that we’re currently halfway through a marriage ceremony.”

Brienne blinks. And blinks again. “An _anvil _marriage?” she asks.

“You’ve heard of them?” Jaime asks, surprised.

“I might have heard mention of them, in a song or two. When I was a girl,” Brienne admits. She looks down at her feet. “I suppose we should…” Her voice trails off.

Jaime wonders what she was going to say. _I suppose we should…_ ask if we can still shelter here the night, without being married first? Go back to the clearing in the forest? Pretend this never happened?

“We could finish this, if you like,” he suggests. As marriage proposals go, it’s hardly flowery or romantic, or even formal and serious. It’s matter-of-fact and… Well, it’s _them._

Brienne looks up. “We could,” she says slowly. “They call it an irregular marriage sometimes, did you know that?”

Jaime didn’t, but, “That sounds about right, wouldn’t you say? For us, I mean?”

And there’s that smile again, on Brienne’s face, only the second time he’s seen it. “Yes,” she says, and Jaime knows she’s not just answering this question.

They turn back to the blacksmith, who appears to have been following their conversation with interest. “If you’re ready to continue?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jaime and Brienne reply in unison, and, “Yes,” again, when the blacksmith asks if they’re both free to marry.

And then they’re married, just like that. 

Jaime looks deep into his wife’s eyes, watches the smile transform her face into something glorious as he stands on his toes to kiss her, and vows to himself that he’ll see that smile on her face again tonight, and all the many nights to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Yes, this is based on the whole real anvil marriage or Gretna marriage that became a thing after the law was changed in England - but not Scotland - in 1754. Underage English couples would elope to Scotland to be married by a blacksmith “over the anvil” in an extremely basic traditional secular marriage.


	3. The Sixth Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope mashup prompt by Nire: Dystopian AU + It's not you, it's my enemies ❤️

Their eyes meet by accident the first time. She has eyes of an astonishing blue, that’s all Jaime knows about her. That, and she’s tall. Everything else is hidden beneath her robes and headdress.

The next day, the second time, his eyes seek out hers. She’s not hard to spot, a good six inches taller than even the tallest of the other women around her. Is he imagining it, or do her eyes dart along the line of soldiers, looking for him?

He’s not imagining it. Their gazes meet and lock for a second, two… And then she’s looking away again.

On the third day, she doesn’t look for him. She stares straight ahead. Almost, he looks away, but then she’s turning, apparently to whisper something to the woman next to her. If her eyes find his for the split second in between, well, surely it’s just a coincidence.

On the fourth day, she won’t meet his eyes. She won’t meet anyone’s eyes. She stares at the ground, at the place where she should be able to see her feet but can’t because of the bulky, shapeless garments that cover everything but the eyes with which she refuses to look at him.

On the fifth day, it’s the same.

On the sixth day, he doesn’t look her way, even when the commander sends him over to the well to draw the heavy bucket up. The women must be fed, and, even more importantly, watered.

They queue up before him, dipping a cup in the bucket one by one, no one saying a word on either side, until, quite suddenly, it’s _her_ turn. She’s there. Close enough to touch, though he doesn’t. That would mean death in an instant. For him, anyway.

She has to lean down to reach the bucket, and as she does so, she whispers, so low that he thinks he might be imagining it:

“It’s not you, it’s my enemies.”

His eyes widen as she straightens again, and for a fleeting moment their eyes meet properly for the first time in days. This is not like the other times, though. This time the look in his eyes says:

_I’m coming for you._

_I’ll be ready,_ her so-blue eyes promise in return.


	4. Stimulus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope mashup prompt from slipsthrufingers: Locked in a Room + Soulmates AU :D

They don’t know how long they’ve been there. A room with white, featureless walls, no windows, and white floor and ceiling to match. They’re dressed all in white, both of them, long shapeless garments that cover them from neck to toe.

It’s a room without any_thing_, any stimulus, in it, save the two of them.

How did they get here? That’s another good question.

They exchange names. He’s Jaime; it means nothing to her. When she tells him her name, Brienne, she’s met with a shake of his head. She watches as his expression changes to something more unsettled, and knows he’s just reached the same realisation she has: the only thing she remembers about herself is her name. Everything else is a blank, just like this room.

They decide to examine the room, inch by inch, and something about the methodical manner in which they both go about it tells Brienne that they’ve both been trained to deal with situations, well, if not exactly like this, situations that are still _situations_.

They’ve covered almost the entire room when they meet near the door - no door handle, inevitably - and his little finger brushes hers.

The room - _the world_ \- lights up for an instant, and his eyes, clear and green - familiar? - fly to hers. They both know what it means.

Soulmates.

They have to get out of here. They both know it. But neither of them can resist. Just one more little touch. Barely anything. Tiny, infinitesimal… perfect.

They’re both breathing hard when Brienne wrenches her hand back from his. It takes all her strength, including reserves she didn’t know she had. 

They share a look. They have to get out of here, wherever here is. They both know it. 

Brienne glances towards the door, and Jaime nods. This first.

They’ll get out of here, get themselves to safety, and then…

Then they can explore everything else.


	5. Stranded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope mashup prompt from Aviss: Bookshop AU and Stranded Due to Inclement Weather

It’s only raining a little as Jaime Lannister drives up into the mountains. It’s raining a lot by the time he reaches the little mountainside village where he stops at the pub for a hot lunch and a beer. The rain is coming down in torrents by the time he steps outside again, and the clouds have descended, so thick that he can barely see the shops on the other side of the road. It would be lunacy to try to drive anywhere in that, and Jaime’s not a lunatic, whatever else he is.

He doesn’t cross the road, but instead stays on this side of the street, wandering under the shelter of the shops’ awnings. A coffee shop, a plant nursery, a shop full of rustic, crafty gifts… He hurries past that one, and reaches the last in the little row of shops along the main street. It’s a bookshop. The selection of books on display in the window is eclectic, to say the least: everything from Maester Yandel’s _World of Ice and Fire_ to Margaery Tyrell’s latest trashy ‘novel’ about the lifestyles of King’s Landing’s rich and shameless.

Of course, he goes in. The little bell above the door tinkles as it opens, and the woman - is that a woman? She’s incredibly tall - behind the counter looks up at him. She opens her mouth, as if to say something, but no words come out. Astonishingly blue eyes stare at him in silent, aching awareness, and Jaime stares right back.

He’s pretty sure he knows where he will be spending the rest of the afternoon.


	6. Not a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope mashup prompt from Fire_Sign: Not a Date + Anger Born of Worry 

Former Olympic fencing champion Jaime Lannister has been virtually a recluse since the freak accident which saw him almost lose his sword hand. He might as well have lost it; he’ll never be able to use it for anything important ever again. 

Since leaving hospital, his contact with the outside world, apart from an ongoing stream of texts from his brother, consists mainly of the twice weekly visits from his physical and occupational therapist, Brienne Tarth. She gives him no sympathy, tells him that it’s his choice if he wants to turn his back on the many opportunities his rich and privileged family background opens up to him - opportunities most people could never dream of - but, since she’s here, he may as well let her do her job. She goads him into doing the painful and useless hand exercises, and proving that he can master the million and one little everyday tasks that she thinks he should be doing - most of them tasks that Jaime paid other people to do for him even before his accident.

Life continues like this for several months. Jaime doesn’t look forward to Brienne’s visits, of course - until the day that she doesn’t show up. She doesn’t call or text to cancel, or even to apologise. She just does. not. show. up. Jaime texts her and gets no reply. He texts her more than once. More than twice. Still no reply. Finally, he calls her, and gets diverted to voicemail.

He hasn’t left his apartment in months, but after it’s been nearly an hour with no sign that she’s even still alive, he decides that he has no choice but to go in search of her. For months, just the thought of going out, of being _seen_, has made him feel sick, but now, not knowing what might have happened to Brienne makes him feel sicker.

It’s only when he reaches the lobby of his building that he realises that he doesn’t know Brienne’s address, but just that she lives somewhere near the water, in the semi-gentrified part of Flea Bottom. He’s about to google her - all too aware that he can only properly use his phone now thanks to her - when the main doors to the complex slide open and Brienne walks through them. She looks just as she always does - tall and blue-eyed and magnificent.

Jaime is… not kind. Or gentle. It’s possible that he yells. Brienne stands there, bemused, and lets him. At last, when he’s all out of words, and is left simply standing there before her, trembling, Brienne reminds him that she had her annual physical today. She’d told him she’d be an hour late. She apologises for forgetting to turn her phone back on afterwards.

She smiles, and suggests that they go down to the cafe on the corner to get coffee.

For the first time in months - or years - Jaime smiles a real smile. He knows that it’s not a date, but, as they walk out into the sunshine together, he decides that the next time will be.


	7. If You Wake at Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from woodelf68: If you wake at midnight

If you wake at midnight, it can feel lonely in the darkness, even - or especially - if you’re not alone. The end of one day and the beginning of another, and you alone are there to witness it.

If you wake at midnight, it’s the best thing in the world to discover that the person lying beside you woke at five minutes before the hour.

You listen to the chimes side by side, hands twined beneath the covers, before turning and discovering the rest of each other, inch by bare inch, until you usher in the new day as one.


	8. A Waltz by Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slipsthrufingers requested: POV for You i Know - any of the other guests than Brienne or Jaime at the house party :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the waltz scene from [Chapter 7 of You I Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387954/chapters/47425639) from Addam's POV

Addam gasped for breath as the energetic country dance came to an end, wishing that he had the option of sitting out for a little. The old battle injury just under his rib was aching again, and right now he felt every one of his thirty-two years. Perhaps the very sweet Miss Poole would consent to keep him company… But no, Lady Margaery was leading the applause for Lady Stark’s providing the music, and loudly, if prettily, demanding that she keep playing. There would be no let-up just yet.**  
**

"And this time, you should take part, Loras,“ Lady Margaery was saying now, addressing her brother, who had risen from the sofa where he had, rather petulantly, been watching the dancers. Her gaze moved from Lord Loras to Miss Tarth, her inference obvious.

Lord Loras looked less than pleased at the idea of dancing with Miss Tarth, and Miss Tarth… She looked mortified. She had met far too many ungentlemanly gentlemen of Lord Loras’s stripe in her time, it was clear.

Addam looked past Miss Tarth then, to Jaime, and that was what made up his mind. The look Jaime sent Lord Loras’s way was so fleeting that only Addam, who knew him so well and who happened to be looking right at him at that moment, could have both seen it and recognised it for what it was.

That look was no less than murderous. It vanished as quickly as it had arrived, but that was enough. 

After murmuring an apology to Miss Poole, Addam said, "Of course you should have your turn, Lord Loras. I’m sure Miss Poole would appreciate some respite from having her toes repeatedly bruised by my two left feet.”

Of course, Lord Loras then had no choice but to ask Miss Poole for the next dance, which he did in his usual languid and slightly bored manner.

Addam felt Miss Tarth’s gaze on him as he sat down upon the sofa. She looked even paler than usual, and her eyes said that she knew exactly what he had just done, and she was grateful for it. He tried to convey with an answering glance that it was of no consequence, and he was glad to be of service to her - which was no less than the truth, though it was not only for her sake that he had done it.

Lady Margaery was asking for a waltz now. Addam was not surprised. It seemed to be all of a piece with her, just one more charming demand with which she shaped - or attempted to shape - the events of the evening to her purposes. No one was less surprised than Addam when Lord Renly asked Lady Margaery to partner him in the waltz.

He was even less surprised to see Jaime bow over Miss Tarth’s hand - much less surprised than the lady herself, it would seem.

Addam had been in company with Jaime times beyond count in the years since they graduated from the schoolroom to the dining room and the ballroom. He was well acquainted with Jaime’s faultless manners, the glint in his eye that accompanied his ever so slightly wicked smile, and his easy and inconsequential conversation, with which he charmed whichever young lady was his companion for dinner or for a dance, without ever once crossing the line into being over-familiar. Addam was also well acquainted with the ease with which Jaime quite forgot each young lady’s very existence the instant he took his leave of her.

None of that had been on display in Jaime’s dealings with Miss Tarth, right from the very first. Perhaps it was because they were all stuck here at Riverrun together, and Jaime had no choice but to partner Miss Tarth at dinner each evening.

It didn’t explain why he felt the need to partner her for each dance as well, though.

The music started up again, and Addam turned his attention back to Miss Poole. She and Lord Loras made a handsome couple, one fair, the other dark, both young and comely and slight of stature. But did Addam imagine it, or had Miss Poole just cast him a quick, but longing, glance? No, he did not imagine it, there it came ag-

There was an audible thump as Miss Tarth stumbled and apologised, her cheeks going red in her self-consciousness. Jaime took her hand, and the two of them re-assumed the starting position, and then they were off again - but only for a few steps, before Miss Tarth again stumbled and turned an even more brilliant shade of red.

Addam hoped, for Miss Tarth’s sake, that the waltz that Lady Stark had chosen was not a long one. He watched as, to his surprise, Jaime and Miss Tarth did _not _assume the starting position once more. Instead, Jaime led Miss Tarth by the hand to the door and then out into the deserted dining room.

Lady Stark played a wrong note then, her first of the whole evening, and Addam guessed that he was not the only one to have noticed that there were now only two young couples dancing in the drawing room itself.

He continued to watch, his attention half on Miss Poole and half on the couple waltzing around in the dim light of the dining room. They did better - far better - out there. Miss Tarth’s confidence grew with each passing minute; that was clear even from this far away.

Addam left them to it, and turned his attention back to Miss Poole. Her smile was a little fixed, now, he thought. He gave her a little smile of his own as she passed in Lord Loras’s arms, just as encouragement, and was rewarded with a smile that was not fixed at all.

He glanced out into the dining room, and just as he did so, Jaime and Miss Tarth twirled past the doorway, and Addam caught the expression on his friend’s face.

He blinked in surprise, and blinked again. But after a moment he smiled and stopped himself just short of shaking his head. If it wasn’t just like Jaime to choose the most unexpected of paths.

Yesterday, Addam had not quite joked that he did not want Jaime as a rival for Lady Margaery’s attentions, and had prepared to do battle with his friend. But now it seemed that neither of them was so interested in battle after all.


	9. Some Other Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nire-the-mithridatist gave these drabble prompts: Wounded, itching, and sweaty! Heheheh
> 
> I responded with a modern office AU drabble sequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I've been having a bit of a drabble fest on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/luthienebonyx). More to come!

_Modern office AU:_

**  
Wounded**

“Some other time,” Jaime says. 

Brienne knows it’s just a polite way of saying ‘no’. It could be worse. He isn’t wondering at her presumption in asking at all. He’s not laughing as if it - or she - is some great joke. 

No, his refusal isn’t a deep wound. But it’s still a wound.

“Of course.”

He looks back at his computer screen. He’s already forgotten her. Brienne turns to leave his office.

“How about next Tuesday?” Jaime says.

“What?" 

"For coffee. Let’s meet next Tuesday, after work.”

“Okay.”

He smiles up at her and Brienne knows her wound is healed.

**  
Itching**

Jaime is itching to spend time with Brienne outside the office. She’s a mystery he’s been trying to work out for ages. He knows so much of what she isn’t: not a man, nor a 'lady’ either. And definitely not one of his father’s plants in the company.

Jaime so very much wants to find out what she _is_. 

He wakes on Tuesday morning itching, literally. The doctor diagnoses chicken pox; all Jaime can think is _Tommen!_

He texts Brienne: _Some other time?_

His message has been delivered, but it’s nearly half an hour before the reply comes back: _Okay._

**  
Sweaty**

_Of course_ Brienne is returning from a run when she finds Jaime Lannister waiting at her door. She’s pink-faced and puffed-out and sweaty. 

“Do you run?” he asks and flushes. “Of course you do.”

“I like to keep fit,” Brienne says, as if it isn’t completely obvious.

“So do I.”

They stare at each other.

“Would you like to come in?” she remembers to ask.

“Thanks. I’ll wait while you get changed, and then we can go out for coffee. If you want.”

Oh, how she wants, but, “Okay,” is what she says, and when she smiles, so does he.


	10. First to Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slipsthrufingers gave me these drabble prompts: 2.1 (first), 4.5 (itching), 3.5 (fire), 5.9 (talent) please and thank you 😘
> 
> I responded with: three drabbles set in the canon universe (Nire beat you to 4.5):

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mini drabble fest continues.

**2.1 first**

The first time Brienne notices the Kingslayer’s profile, it takes her by surprise. Even beneath a year’s worth of mud and muck, it’s a thing of beauty. His cheekbones are as perfectly shaped as cut glass - and probably just as sharp as his tongue - the line of his jaw pitched at just the right angle.

The first time she touches Jaime’s face, she’s surprised again. She knows the sight of him now, so very well, but touching… Touching is different.

The first time Jaime raises his hand to Brienne’s face, mirroring her hand on his, neither of them is surprised.  
  


**4.5 itching**

I already did this one for Nire, and I’m all out of itching thoughts. You can find hers [here](https://luthienebonyx.tumblr.com/post/188878573713/wounded-itching-and-sweaty-heheheh).  
  


**3.5 fire**

Jaime had thought Brienne of Tarth cold, when first he saw her, as she’d stared back at him with contempt in those icy blue eyes of hers. He had revised his opinion to merely ‘cool’, once their journey started, and then to 'easily provoked’ before the first day was done.

But then, _then_… three Stark soldiers had happened upon them at precisely the wrong moment. 

Watching Brienne dispatch them one by one with such skill, such precision, such _fire_, had woken an answering fire in Jaime.

When he looks at her now, he wonders how he ever thought her cold.  
  


**5.9 talent**

Jaime’s official talent was always with the sword. From far too young an age, he’d willingly take on all comers, honing his skill as early defeats turned into almost certain victories. 

Jaime had another, hidden talent with a different sort of sword, but only Cersei knew of that for sure.

He lost his sword hand. He broke with Cersei. Jaime finds that he’s glad he’s no longer the man he was, no more so than when he knocks on Brienne’s door at Winterfell.

He’s relearnt one sort of swordsmanship. Now he trusts in Brienne to help him relearn the other.


	11. Wedding and Bedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous gave me these drabble prompts: Any of these: 1.8 grey, 2.13 blunt, 3.2 wind, 4.16 lingering, 5.11 forest
> 
> And I responded with: Have an arranged marriage AU in five drabbles, Anon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And still more drabbles.

_Arranged marriage AU:_   
  


**1.8 grey**

They say all cats are grey at night, and every woman beautiful when the lights are out. Jaime doesn’t know if that’s true, but he’s about to learn the answer.

His new wife is hidden under a great lump of bedclothes. He snuffs out his candle and they are alone in the dark. His insistence on forgoing the bedding ceremony is perhaps the only mercy of this wretched day.

He disrobes quickly and gets into bed beside her.

“Brienne,” he whispers. There’s a rustle of sheets, and he feels her hand, hesitant on his shoulder. “Let’s get this over with.”  
  


**2.13 blunt**

Jaime feels thick, blunt fingers against his skin as they explore the shape of his shoulder. They don’t _feel_ beautiful, but their touch is gentle and curious. They’re nothing like Cersei’s fingers, soft and familiar, but ending in sharp spikes that dig in when he’s-

But tonight isn’t for Cersei. There will be no more nights for her. Tonight is for Brienne. _My wife_. 

He never thought to put those two words together, yet here they are.

He reaches out his own hand and feels her tense beneath his touch. 

“Relax.” He’s not sure if he’s adjuring her or himself.  
  


**3.2 wind**

The wind gets up sometime in the night, right when Jaime doesn’t. He gets out of bed to secure the shutters. Anything to hide his humiliation. Maybe she’s too innocent to realise that he can't…

He lies down, staring up at the canopy of the bed. How long until morning?

“Jaime.” It’s the first time she’s said his name since the wedding ceremony. She pulls the covers back and then she’s over him, _on_ him, pressing him so _firmly_ into the mattress that- 

It’s over too soon.

“Next time,” he whispers against Brienne’s neck.

The shutters rattle in the wind.  
  


**4.16 lingering**

Jaime had planned to be up and out of the bedchamber at first light. Instead, the sun is fully over the horizon when he wakes to find Brienne propped up on one elbow, observing his face intently.

She goes red.

“What?” he asks.

“I just wondered. I-” She shakes her head, and then he realises.

They hadn’t kissed, in the night. They haven’t kissed since the brush of lips after he placed his cloak around her shoulders. Jaime smiles. Of all the difficulties they will face, this one is the easiest to remedy.

They linger in bed a long time.  
  


**5.11 forest**

There’s a pool in the forest near Casterly Rock, where Lannisters have hunted boar for generations. Jaime used to swim there as a boy, after the hunt was done.

He takes Brienne there, when they’ve been wed a week. They strip and dive into the pool, and Jaime pushes Brienne up until she’s half-lying on the bank, legs in the water.

Between her legs he hunts through a different sort of forest, pale and bushy but just as wild, until he finds his quarry. 

He doesn’t need the darkness to find beauty in the noises he coaxes from her then.


	12. Afterwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> djlouat asked:
> 
> Drabble prompts: blue, entangled, armour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These three are very vaguely set in my [After Everything](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1501139) fix-it universe.

**Blue**

Blue has always been Brienne’s colour. It’s there in her glorious eyes, the waters around her island, and in the colours of her House. Her armour’s blue, too, though that’s hardly a coincidence.

Blue has never been Jaime’s colour. Crimson and gold are the colours of house Lannister. Once, he clothed himself in those colours as a matter of course.

But not today. Today he’s wearing a cloak of azure blue. He doubts it matches his colouring half so well as it does someone with astonishing blue eyes, but it’s still his choice, as is everything that goes with it.  
  


**Entangled**

Jaime’s never shared a bed with anyone. He’s slept with someone but never _slept_ with someone before. It’s more complicated than he expected, particularly when the person he’s sleeping next to is new to this as well.

One night, Brienne rolls over and takes all the blankets with her. Another time, she gets up and almost trips over Jaime’s foot that he left hanging out the side. Almost, it’s aggravating. Almost, they growl at each other.

Then one morning they awake entangled, and it’s suddenly oh so simple.

Jaime thinks he could get used to sharing a bed after all.  
  


**Armour**

Courtesy is a lady’s armour, or so they say. Clearly, no one has ever told Brienne that. It’s not that she’s _dis_courteous, but more that she prefers silence to words, and boiled leather and steel plate to either.

Jaime watches her at practice, and remembers the sight of her in battle: magnificent, stupendous and utterly lethal. They’re not a lady’s words but they suit Brienne better than any courtesy.

_There are no men like me. _Jaime had said those words about himself once, and meant them, but it’s even truer to say that there are no women like Brienne.


	13. Rings and Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aliveanddrunkonsunlight asked: Drabble prompts: 4.10 entangled, 5.1 ring
> 
> And one last drabble. serhumfreysbrokencollarbone said: oooooh: hair!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the last two for this round of drabbles!

_Set in a vague alternate future in which certain people are still very much alive._

_I did entangled [here](https://luthienebonyx.tumblr.com/post/188903020178/drabble-prompts-blue-entangled-armour)._

**5.1 ring  
**

They return from Essos looking as they always do, save that now Ser Jaime wears a ring on his only hand and Ser Brienne’s bears its mirror image: two plain bands of yellow gold, pure and unadulterated. 

Everyone wonders, but no one dares ask - unfortunately, Tyrion Lannister is away in the North. Finally, Grand Maester Samwell consults the great library and finds the answer: the rings are Volantene marriage tokens.

When Podrick asks Ser Brienne, a muttered “We couldn’t agree on a cloak,” is all she will say. She can’t help but smile, though, and Podrick sees the real answer.  
  


**Hair  
**  
Brienne’s hair is warrior-short when first Jaime sees it. It grows out somewhat in their travels, but when they reach King’s Landing she cuts it as short as his. It’s the sensible choice; in battle, long hair is only the enemy’s friend.**  
**

They’ve been on Tarth two months before he realises that she’s not cutting her hair. It’s tied back with a thong when their first babe is placed in her arms.

It will take years of peace before Brienne will be able to sit on her hair. Jaime looks forward to that day with every fibre of his being.


	14. It's all in the POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samirant asked for: POV — something that’s already happened, retold from another character’s perspective
> 
> This is the end of [Chapter 1 of History Never Repeats](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207451/chapters/66457978), from Addam’s POV.

Neither of them notices when Addam arrives, but they immediately have his full attention. 

Jaime is not his usual cool, unruffled on-camera self. The woman’s comments are getting to him, though probably only someone who knows Jaime as well as Addam does would be able to tell quite how much. And the woman herself. Well. 

Addam hasn’t met many women who aren’t immediately taken with his cousin Jaime, but clearly this big, tall woman with the crooked nose is one of them. He’s seen so many, much prettier, women struck speechless or reduced to babbling when they’re introduced to him, but this one fairly drips disdain.

The atmosphere between them is electric. It will make brilliant television. Addam can tell that already. 

He calls “Cut!” but he doubts that will be enough to stop the match in progress.

Addam goes over to referee, already mentally mapping out his future plans for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's short but I just thought I'd leave it here for anyone who wanders past...


	15. Spilt Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intoni asked for: teapot, hand in a cast, and J/B.

The teapot wobbles alarmingly as Brienne lifts it with her left hand. She manages to pour out two cups of tea without any real mishap, but she leaves an amber-coloured rivulet streaked across the countertop in her wake by the time she sets down the teapot again.

Brienne glares at Jaime, and he holds up his hand. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Don’t think so loudly,” Brienne tells him, and turns to grab a sponge from the sink. Even wiping up the spilt tea is awkward when she has to do it with her left hand.

“Only two more days until the cast comes off,” he reminds her. 

Brienne hurls the sponge into the sink, or tries to. Her aim is way off, and it rebounds off the edge of the counter and onto the floor. Swearing under her breath, she bends to retrieve it.

“I didn’t think loudly that time,” Jaime points out as Brienne resumes her seat.

“You didn’t think at all!” Brienne snaps. She lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry.” She’s not being fair, she knows, and that only makes it worse. “I hate it,” she admits.

“Only two more days,” he says again. “You don’t need to get used to it.”

Brienne closes her eyes. “That’s why I hate it,” she says, very quietly. 

When she opens her eyes again, Jaime is still sitting beside her, watching her. He lifts his left hand, his _only _hand, and cups the side of her face. 

“I know,” he says, just as quietly.

He doesn’t say anything else, but as he leans in to plant a soft kiss on her lips, Brienne hears every word just the same.


End file.
